Equal Rites

give her a light cuff about the head. So he was astonished to find himself bending down and talking seriously to a small, grubby-faced child holding a large broomstick (which also, it seemed to him later, was in some indefinable way paying attention ).
    He explained about the caravans. The child nodded.
    “People all get together to travel?”
    “Precisely.”
    “Where to?”
    “All sorts of places. Sto Lat, Pseudopolis…Ankh-Morpork, of course…”
    “But the river goes there,” said Esk, reasonably. “Barges. The Zoons.”
    “Ah, yes,” said the merchant, “but they charge high prices and they can’t carry everything and, anyway, no one trusts them much.”
    “But they’re very honest!”
    “Huh, yes,” he said. “But you know what they say: never trust an honest man.” He smiled knowingly.
    “Who says that?”
    “They do. You know. People,” he said, a certain uneasiness entering his voice.
    “Oh,” said Esk. She thought about it. “They must be very silly,” she said primly. “Thank you, anyway.”
    He watched her wander off and got back to his counting. A moment later there was another tug at his coat.
    “Fiftysevenfiftysevenfiftysevenwell?” he said, trying not to lose his place.
    “Sorry to bother you again,” said Esk, “but those bale things…”
    “What about them fiftysevenfiftysevenfiftyseven?”
    “Well, are they supposed to have little white worm things in them?”
    “Fiftysev— What? ” The merchant lowered his slate and stared at Esk, “What little worms?”
    “Wriggly ones. White,” added Esk, helpfully. “All sort of burrowing about in the middle of the bales.”
    “You mean tobacco threadworm?” He looked wild-eyed at the stack of bales being unloaded by, now he came to think about it, a vendor with the nervous look of a midnight sprite who wants to get away before you find out what fairy gold turns into in the morning. “But he told me these had been well stored and—how do you know, anyway?”
    The child had disappeared among the crowds. The merchant looked hard at the spot where she had been. He looked hard at the vendor, who was grinning nervously. He looked hard at the sky. Then took his sampling knife out of his pocket, stared at it for a moment, appeared to reach a decision, and sidled toward the nearest bale.
    Esk, meanwhile, had by random eavesdropping found the caravan being assembled for Ankh-Morpork. The trail boss was sitting at a table made up of a plank across two barrels.
    He was busy.
    He was talking to a wizard.
    Seasoned travelers know that a party setting out to cross possibly hostile country should have a fair number of swords in it but should definitely have a wizard in case there is any need for magic arts and, even if these do not become necessary, for lighting fires. A wizard of the third rank or above does not expect to pay for the privilege of joining the party. Rather, he expects to be paid. Delicate negotiations were even now coming to a conclusion.
    “Fair enough, Master Treatle, but what of the young man?” said the trail boss, one Adab Gander, an impressive figure in a trollhide jerkin, rakishly floppy hat and a leather kilt. “He’s no wizard, I can see.”
    “He is in training,” said Treatle—a tall skinny wizard whose robes declared him to be a mage of the Ancient and Truly Original Brothers of the Silver Star, one of the eight orders of wizardry.
    “Then no wizard he,” said Gander. “I know the rules, and you’re not a wizard unless you’ve got a staff. And he hasn’t.”
    “Even now he travels to the Unseen University for that small detail,” said Treatle loftily. Wizards parted with money slightly less readily than tigers parted with their teeth.
    Gander looked at the lad in question. He had met a good many wizards in his time and considered himself a good judge and he had to admit that this boy looked like good wizard material. In other words, he was thin, gangling, pale from reading disturbing books in unhealthy rooms, and had watery eyes like two lightly poached eggs. It crossed Gander’s mind that one must speculate in order to accumulate.
    All he needs to get right to the top, he thought, is a bit of a handicap. Wizards are martyrs to things like asthma and flat feet, it somehow seems to give them their drive.
    “What’s your name, lad?” he said, as kindly as possible.
    “Sssssssssssssss” said the boy. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a captive balloon. He turned to his companion, full of